


Back Where You Belong

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Exhibitionism, Ficlet, M/M, Masked ball, Passion, Reunion, Secret Relationship, Top Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29942046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: A few weeks ago, Greg told Mycroft that things were over between them... but on reflection he's not ready to give up on their stormy, passionate bond.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 8
Kudos: 148





	Back Where You Belong

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was written for onegirlandherpen with my heartfelt gratitude. <3 It used to live in my ficlet collection, but I'm slowly separating them all out. I'm playing with dom/subby undertones in this one - I'm not claiming it's a model relationship.
> 
> (Let me know if you find any of my work posted away from AO3.)

"I hadn't expected to see you this evening."

At the sound of the voice, Greg's stomach squirms up behind his ribs. He suppresses it, tells himself to breathe, and concentrates on the cigarette he's trying to light.

"Scotland Yard send someone every year," he says, clicking. It's hard to see through his black velvet mask. The night breeze snatches every spark from his lighter. "Community engagement. My turn to take the bullet." 

The silence behind him lengthens.

"I didn't ask to come," he adds.

Somehow he can feel Mycroft stepping out into the darkness with him, passing through the balcony doors.

"Quite the coincidence," Mycroft notes. Greg closes his eyes. He should have learned his lesson by now; lying to a Holmes never works. "Almost makes me wonder if you knew that I'd be here."

 _Christ._ "I didn't."

"Oh, no?" Mycroft brushes into Greg's personal space. Before Greg can breathe Mycroft presses close behind him, his mouth ghosting gently over the side of Greg's neck.

Greg's heart seems to heave. His muscles tighten, breath catching in his throat. The lighter drops out of his hand, clattering through the railings into the darkened garden below. _Shit._

"I seem to recall you saying that you never wanted to see me again," Mycroft murmurs, snaking an arm around Greg's waist.

"I did," Greg gasps, reaching for the rail. His chin tilts upwards for more on its own. _Shit. Shit._ "I did say that."

Mycroft huffs against his throat, a stroke of warm breath amidst the cold.

"And yet here you are," he remarks, "no more than a few weeks later, mysteriously attending a masked charity ball at which I am also a guest. New suit, fresh haircut. New fragrance. Could it be that we're regretting our tempestuous little outburst?"

Greg bites down. His blood is on fire; he can't bear it. Nobody else has ever risen this force of longing in him. Nobody else ever cuts so effortlessly through all the noise and makes him feel. It's all so physical and so fierce that he doesn't know if he dares to call them soul mates. It seems as if a bond like that should feel soft and pink and comfortable, and that isn't at all how this feels. What he experiences when he's with Mycroft is like living eternally in the three tiny seconds before orgasm. There's nothing soft and pink about their connection, but it floods Greg's world with colour. He'd rather argue with Mycroft than make love with someone else. Sometimes he really believes that he's lived a hundred lives with Mycroft, died a hundred deaths at his side, and all it takes is one touch of their skin to remember.

"Can we, erm... can we talk about us?" he asks, his voice breaking already.

Mycroft huffs.

"I think you've already expressed yourself very plainly," he says, slipping an idle hand down the front of Greg's body. As he cups Greg slowly through his trousers, Greg bucks, gasping. "You're a devil, parading yourself in front of me in a silk-backed waistcoat. Did you come here hoping to win me back, or to show me what I'm missing? I doubt you were even sure of it yourself, were you?"

All of Greg's thoughts have vanished out of his head like steam. He can't remember anything in the world. The only thing which exists any longer is the tight wrap of Mycroft's arm around his waist, Mycroft's other hand caressing him gently, coaxing him to harden. He's missed this so much.

"There," Mycroft murmurs in his ear, pleased. "Shhh, now... let's have no more of this tedious attempt at separation. We both knew that you'd return to me eventually."

Greg shivers, gasping again as Mycroft twists open his trousers. "Oh, Jesus—a-are you serious? Here?"

Mycroft hums, lowering his zip. 

"You chose the location," he says, and licks Greg's neck, a shameless drag of tongue which makes Greg's entire body groan. _Oh, fuck. Thank fuck._ "I'm hardly responsible for your exhibitionist streak, dear heart."

Mycroft frees Greg's cock to the night air, gathers his fingers around it and start to stroke: long, lazy, teasing pulls. 

"That's it," he whispers, swiping his thumb over the head. Greg's eyes roll; he leans back in Mycroft's arms, panting with desperate joy. _Thank fuck. Thank God. At last._ "Back where you belong, my darling... shhh..."


End file.
